


The Wilds of Southwestern Marley

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, Fix-It, Ymir Lives, farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: They're living for themselves.





	The Wilds of Southwestern Marley

**Author's Note:**

> [Original](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/332999.html?thread=1919313607#cmt1919313607), for a "100 Words of Happy Lesbians" thread.

“Hey,” Ymir says. “Better pick this one before the worms get to it.” She pulls the fat, round peach off the twig, which snaps backward and upward with a loud rustle of leaves, and hands the fruit to Historia.

Historia holds it to her nose and inhales the sweet, thick perfume before taking a generous bite out of it. It tastes as delicious as it smells, just on the right side of overripe. The juice runs down her chin. She hesitates a second, then lifts her arm and blots her face on her sleeve. It’s just rough work linen, anyway, already well-stained with dirt and plant matter. A lot more comfortable than a fur robe of office over a silk gown.

“I’d’ve licked your face clean for you,” Ymir says with a leer.

“Ymir.” Historia’s face gets hot, though not as much as it would have, once.

“But didn’t I tell you? Much better than the peaches on the island. Never really gets hot enough there.”

That’s Historia’s only complaint, really: the weather. Deep in the wilds of southwestern Marley, far from any ocean, summer is heavy and oppressive. And Ymir says the winters here are even bitterer than they are back ... home? Since they emerged from the hold of a stolen airship into these endless rolling hills, that word has never felt like the right one for Paradis, not even while she was ruling it. But everything’s grown tall and healthy in the heat and humidity. Fruits and vegetables that on the island are just pale imitations of what they are here, fruits and vegetables that Historia had never seen. How did she ever live before she knew what tomatoes tasted like?

“We should get back to work,” she says with a frown. There are lots of other peaches, and apples and plums, about to tumble off their branches. They can’t afford to let a single one go to waste. Sondra on the refugee farmstead a few kilometers west said she’d show them how to make preserves and brandy and apple butter and how to put up vegetables in return for helping her raise the new barn and taking their turns on the armed night watch. With Liberio in ruins, the Marleyans don’t have the manpower to hunt down the shifter who changed her mind and ran away, or the Eldian royal who ran off with her. But it’d be a fatal mistake for anyone who’s ever escaped them to let down their guard completely.

Between the crops and the jealously conserved hoard of gold and jewels Historia smuggled off the island sewn into her hems, they’ll be able to buy or trade for meat, milk, cheese, and wool throughout the winter. They didn’t want to get animals until they’d gotten their farming feet under them; come spring they’ll buy some from the farmstead to the north.

“Yeah,” Ymir admits. “In a sec.” She leans down and lifts Historia’s chin, and when the kiss ends she actually does lick the last traces of peach juice away.


End file.
